


Rosa Mundi

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fandom Bicycle, Hand Jobs, M/M, Morning Sex, Not Jealous Sherlock, Open Relationships, Roses, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bouquet of flowers arrives at 221B for John. Sherlock investigates but the list of possible senders is not a short one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rosa Mundi

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ fan_flashworks prompt: rose. Greenaway's [Language of Flowers](https://archive.org/details/languageofflower00gree%22) gives 'variety' as the meaning of Mundi roses.
> 
> Includes reference to "The Speckled Blonde" case, which is on John Watson's blog.

“Good morning, love. You’re up early.” Mrs. Hudson’s face was hidden behind a bouquet of roses in a glass vase. She set the flowers on the table. “They’re for John.”    
  
“He’s at the surgery today,” said Sherlock, looking up from the microscope with a bland smile. “I’m sure he’ll thank you in the afternoon.”   
  
“Oh, they’re not from me, love. They were delivered downstairs.”   
  
Sherlock frowned. He studied the arrangement, fiften white-and-pink blossoms.    
  
She handed him a card.   
  
“No message. No sender,” he said.   
  
Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “John probably knows. They’re beautiful. Rosa Mundi. We had them in the garden when I was a child. Lovely fragrance.” She patted him on the shoulder as she turned. “Lucky man,” she added as she disappeared down the stairs.   
  
Sherlock tapped his fingertips to his lips. Flowers were a token.    
  
Of condolence and convalescence.   
  
John had not suffered any loss recently nor had he been seriously ill.   
  
Of gratitude.   
  
A patient, or a patient’s family, might send John flowers thanking him for his care, but the type of flowers and the lack of a note suggested something more intimate.   
  
Of affection and admiration.   
  
That narrowed the list of possibilities, but it was still by no means short.    
  
Sherlock was not jealous.    
  
He was, however, curious.   
  
The mystery of who had sent John the flowers and why was, for the moment, more intriguing than the liver cells on the slide. He rose and proceeded to make himself a cup of tea. 

* * *

The first suspect on Sherlock’s list was himself.    
  
No one had more affection and admiration for John Watson than Sherlock Holmes.   
  
Had he, without memory of it, sent John the flowers?    
  
Highly improbable.   
  
But if he had, the why was obvious.    
  
This morning. 

* * *

“Love?”   
  
The whispered word was a puff of hot air on Sherlock’s skin. He grunted a reply.     
  
This was Sherlock’s reward for succumbing to his body’s need for repose. John. In his bed. Plastered to his back. Breathing terms of endearment against the nape of his neck. Nudging the cleft of his arse with his own morning erection.   
  
Sherlock’s cock stirred.   
  
“Surgery today,” mumbled John. “No time for a slow fuck.”   
  
Sherlock shuddered.    
  
A slow fuck consisted of John raising Sherlock’s temperature degree by degree for a short eternity through gentle caresses and murmured filthiness and wet, sloppy mouthing of every erogenous and semi-erogenous zone on Sherlock’s body. It meant Sherlock feeling, through John’s touch and words and warmth, as loved and desired as he had ever been, all the while gripping the bedsheet with a white-knuckled fist and pleading for release.   
  
But a quick fuck wasn’t bad, either.   
  
Sherlock’s hip jerked at the sound of the cap on the bottle of lube flicking open.    
  
John’s hand lifted Sherlock’s thigh. His lips were at Sherlock’s ear.   
  
“No time to suck you the way I want, love. No time to worship that cock the way it deserves. God, you’re gorgeous. All day, but in the morning, ugh! Want to taste that hard prick. Round and round. Swirly.”   
  
Sherlock moaned into the pillow. He loved swirly.   
  
While John’s lube-coated fingers stretched Sherlock’s hole, John’s mouth teased Sherlock’s earlobe, mimicking the ministrations they might make on his cock. The dual sensations recalled the morning that Sherlock had woke to find his hard cock in John’s mouth and two of John’s hard fingers in his arse. When John had politely bid consent the previous evening, Sherlock had been ill-prepared for just how  _ fucking _ amazing it would feel. Within moments of waking, he had shot his load down John’s throat.    
  
But being filled, like he was now, with John’s cock, was also glorious.   
  
“Oh, love. My gorgeous fuck! How are you so warm?” John began thrusting, rolling, really, into Sherlock. “So soft? So  _ fucking _ tight? Jesus Christ!”    
  
Sherlock smiled. The wonder in John’s voice was the same as it had been the first time he’d fucked Sherlock and not very far from the first time he’d heard Sherlock’s deductions at a crime scene. That Sherlock could still provoke awe as well as lust was extraordinary.   
  
Just like John.   
  
“I’m going to take care of you, love. Just let me, oh, yeah, here we go.” John pushed Sherlock into the mattress as he drove his cock deeper. He came with a low grunt, then quickly rolled them together and wrapped a tight, slick fist around Sherlock’s cock. He gave it one, two, three pumps, then groaned,  “Gorgeous prick!”   
  
It sounded like a prayer.    
  
Sherlock came.

* * *

Sherlock shook his head, and the memory lifted like fog.    
  
He cast a wry glance at the flowers.    
  
The next suspect was as close to home as himself. Almost.

* * *

** Nice flowers. SH **  
  
Sherlock was slipping.   
  
He actually thought that Mycroft had sent John—Mycroft zoomed in on the image—a bouquet of matronly-looking garden roses.    
  
“My dear, is it by chance Doctor Watson’s birthday?”   
  
“No, sir.”    
  
Mycroft hummed. “I have some personal business to conduct en route.”   
  
“Shall I return to the office now?”    
  
“No.” He gestured to the front seat. “See if you can get the most current figures on that other matter. I would like to review them prior to departure.”   
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  
The partition window rose. 

* * *

“Coffee, John?” asked Sarah.   
  
“Love some.”   
  
_ WOO! WOO! WOO! _  
  
“Everyone stay calm and exit in an orderly fashion. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”   
  
“I don’t smell smoke,” said John.

* * *

Five minutes later, he spotted the car.   
  
“You could’ve just phoned me on my phone,” he said as he slipped into the leather interior.    
  
“How are you, Doctor Watson?”   
  
“I’m well. You’re travelling. Far.”    
  
Mycroft blinked.   
  
“This handsome suit,” John said, leaning forward and fingering Mycroft’s cuff, “while not exactly a country tweed, is sturdier than your normal wear. Perfect for a gentleman anticipating a long flight.”   
  
The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “Well done. Negotiations may be protracted, and I wanted to wish you a fond farewell.”   
  
John smirked. “How fond?”   
  
Mycroft’s gaze fell to John’s crotch. “The fondest.”   
  
John opened his trousers and ran a flat palm down his cock.    
  
Mycroft batted John’s hand away. “Allow me.” He bent and pressed his lips to the fabric of John’s pants.    
  
John stroked Mycroft’s head gently as he nuzzled, then burrowed beneath the waistband of John’s pants, licking John’s wiry hair and the tip of his hardening shaft.   
  
When his cock was flush and straining, John grunted.  He lifted his hips and eased his trousers and pants down.   
  
“Oh, God.” He watched his prick disappear into Mycroft’s mouth and emerge dripping with spit. Mycroft swallowed him again, deeper, and hummed, sending a delicious vibration through John’s body.   
  
“Fuck, fuck.” John punctuated his chant with minute thrusts up as Mycroft’s mouth sank down. “I can’t look away,” he confessed. “Watching you, the picture of respectability, sucking my cock like a greedy whore. Fuck, Mycroft!” He patted Mycroft’s head in warning.   
  
Mycroft drank John down as he came.   
  
John kissed Mycroft’s cheek. “Do you want—?” He laid a tentative hand on Mycroft’s crotch.   
  
Mycroft’s gaze darkened, but he gave a shake of the head. “I’ve not been as successful as hoped, thus the need for a fortnight’s trip.”   
  
Ah.    
  
This equation, a chastity device with merit-based key, was, John suspected, one of many that governed Mycroft Holmes’ life. “As you wish,” he replied casually. “But you might do very well wherever you’re headed, with no means for immediate reward. You could consider it a cash advance.” He grinned.   
  
Mycroft blushed, smiled a bashful smile, and looked away, the combined effect of which was to make him look quite young. John was charmed, but did not move or speak until Mycroft tilted his head and whispered, “One could always do with a bit of walking-around money.”

* * *

Mycroft brushed John’s hair from his face. “I will endeavor to be worthy of that,” he vowed.   
  
“See that you do,” teased John. Then he kissed Mycroft’s wilting cock.   
  
Mycroft whimpered.   
  
John kissed it again. 

* * *

Mycroft pushed a bottle of water and a cotton handkerchief into John’s hand. “Georges will take you wherever you require.”   
  
“Be safe.”

* * *

By the time the car was moving again, John had finished the bottle of water.   
  
The door opened, and she slid into the seat next to him, tapping on her phone.    
  
“As if,” she muttered.   
  
“Good morning,” said John.   
  
“Good morning,” she replied, not looking up.   
  
_ Tap-tap-tap!  _  
  
As he contemplated the rest of his day, John’s fingers tapped on the door to the same rhythm as hers.   
  
“For the next two weeks, I’ve got loads of free time.”   
  
He turned his head.    
  
Fuck! When had she unbuttoned her blouse? The bra was lovely, a shimmery, sparkly, pinkish, whitish, breast-ish thing.   
  
“For example, the next twenty-four minutes,” she added, dropping her phone onto the seat.   
  
“I’m afraid my cock’s a bit out of commission for the moment.”   
  
“You’ve still got a mouth, haven’t you?”   
  
“At your disposal, m’lady.”

* * *

She was so soft and smelled so good and John had always been a sucker for shimmery, sparkly, lacy, silky things, that he really didn’t mind being smothered by a cunt.   
  
He was on his back, his lower half curled in an extremely uncomfortable, slightly ridiculous position, and she was riding his face, his mouth, really, with all the determination of a jockey atop a thoroughbred nearing the finish line.   
  
John had a nagging hope that she  _ was  _ nearing the finish line, just for the sake of his twisted spine.   
“Oh, you  _ do _ know how to suck a clit, don’t you?” she breathed.   
  
John did, in fact, know how to suck a clit; he’d been demonstrating this knowledge to her enthusiastic groans for some time. Light suction and light teasing with his tongue at first until she’d been reduced to panting and calling him a string of unladylike names.   
Her sighs grew louder until she was completely crushed against him, writhing. He held his breath and dug the pads of his fingers into her buttocks.   
  
She came with a grunt.   
  
Then she sprang off him, and he righted himself slowly, reaching for the handkerchief to wipe his face.    
  
“Thanks. You can play with my tits ‘til Baker Street.”   
  
“Right.”    
  
Her breasts were still veiled in the sheer fabric, fabric made wet by his mouth, nipples pebbled and darkened by the gentle pinching of his fingers and slow flicking of his thumb.   
  
His head was in her lap.    
  
One of her hands rested on his chest, the other held her phone.    
  
_ Tap-tap-tap!  _  
  
He watched her chest rise and fall as she breathed, ogling the soft mounds of her breasts, the sweet-smelling valley of her cleavage.    
  
“That cock done convalescing?”    
  
He met her gaze and smiled. Then he opened his trousers and yanked down his pants.    
  
She grunted. “God, I’m going to want to ride that.” 

* * *

_ WHACK! _  
  
She looked over her shoulder and laughed. “Oh, yeah, spank me, Daddy.”   
  
“Bad girl.”   
  
She resumed bouncing on his lap, giggling, until he spent himself in her.    
  
He exhaled. “How long ‘til Baker Street?”   
  
She waved a hand at the window. “We’ve been here for half an hour.”

* * *

John’s his phone beeped.   
  
** Barts. Morgue. SH **  
  
He turned back, but the black car was already gone.    
  
“Damn. Missed my ride. Taxi!”

* * *

“Last Wednesday,” said Sherlock, his eyes boring into her.   
  
“Was chillier than forecast.”    
  
“I was here. With John.”   
  
“You were rude. As usual. I wiped off the lipstick. You said my mouth looked too small.”    
  
“And John?”   
“Was very kind to me after you left. He said my mouth wasn’t small at all. He said a lot of nice things, in fact.”   
  
“And you?”   
  
She glared at him. “He said you weren’t jealous. He said you had an understanding.”   
  
“I’m not and we do. What happened next?”   
  
“I showed him just how not-small my mouth is.”   
  
“AH-HA!” Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly. Then he shoved his mobile in her face.   
  
She looked at the screen, her brow furrowed. “What?”   
  
“Ugh! Not you,” he sighed and lowered his phone.   
  
“Sherlock?”   
  
“AH-HA!” cried Sherlock, spinning, his mobile in hand.   
  
Lestrade stopped and stared at the image. “Did John’s Gran die?”   
  
“Not you, either,” mumbled Sherlock. “Not Mrs. Hudson, not me, not Mycroft, not not-Anthea. That only leaves, oh! That only leaves one diabolical, devilishly clever, consultingly criminal possibility!”   
  
“What, the body?” asked Lestrade.   
  
“No,” said Sherlock.   
  
“Hello,” said John.   
  
Sherlock dropped his mobile in his pocket. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”   
  
“Early thirties,” said Lestrade. “Dyed blonde hair, red speckles on her skin, no obvious cause of death…”    
  
When John looked up, he noted the pocket of Sherlock’s coat and something nagged at him. The silhouette was wrong.   
  
The door opened.   
  
“Sir?”   
  
Lestrade turned. “Yes, Donovan?”   
  
“Someone for you outside.”    
  
“About the case?”   
  
She shook her head.    
  
“Oh, Christ. I’ll be a minute.”    
  
Molly retreated to the office, and John approached Sherlock. He ran a hand along his side.    
  
“Not now, John. Case!”    
  
“Sherlock!” John growled as he yanked the Browning from the pocket of the Belstaff and slipped it in the back of his trousers.  
  
“What in the hell are you doing with that?”   
  
“Miss Stoner’s stepfather is not a nice fellow, John.”   
  
“Yeah, well, leave the not nice fellows to me, you just do the blip-blip-blip.” He wiggled his fingers.   
  
“I would if Lestrade would keep his divorce proceedings confined to his leisure time.”   
  
“What?” asked John.   
  
“Sorry, guys,” said Lestrade sheepishly when he returned.   
  
“Everything okay?” asked John.    
  
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his face. “All’s fair, right?”   
  
“We’ll go have a pint after, yeah?”   
  
Lestrade nodded. “That’d be good. Thanks.”   
  
“No!” cried Sherlock indignantly. “John, there’s something at home that you really must see!”   
  
John glowered. “Witnessing whatever damage your latest experiment has wreaked upon the flat, Sherlock, can wait until the pub closes. What do you think?” He gestured to the body.   
  
“I think her stepfather poisoned her with tainted cosmetics, but I’m more interested in these puncture marks.” He turned over the arm. “The tox screen should prove very interesting, and I’d track down the sister’s fiancé.”

* * *

“The shit Sherlock pulls out of his arse is just unbelievable,” said Lestrade.    
  
“Snakes on acid as a murder weapon is a new one,” said John. He set his glass on the bar.   
  
“ _ Attempted _ murder weapon. Sherlock was right, of course, the blighter. The face cream actually killed her.”   
  
“Primer,” said John.   
  
“What?”   
  
“It was primer. Goes on before the make-up.”   
  
“Huh. Guess if I knew things like that I might still be happily married.”    
  
Their eyes met. John shook his head.   
  
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Lestrade sighed loudly. “Another round?”   
  
John nodded.

* * *

“Let’s call it a night,” said Lestrade. “It’s just late enough and I’m just pissed enough that it won’t matter that nobody’s there. Or how big that fucking P.E. teacher’s cock is.”    
  
“I’m going hit the gents.”   
  
“Me, too.”    
  
“By the way, Greg, he’s got nothing on you.”    
  
“Yeah, nothing but a regular job that puts him home at night and on the weekends and a six-pack on the outside and not the inside of his stomach and my soon-to-be-former wife attached to him like a lamprey.”   
  
“I meant cock-wise.”    
  
He snorted. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”   
  
“It’s the truth. ‘Three Continents,’ remember? You’re good.”   
  
“You think so?” He looked down.   
  
“Want me to prove it?” asked John, grinning.   
  
“I’m not going to show you mine unless you show me yours.”   
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”   
  
They slammed into the stall.    
  
Lestrade opened his trousers.   
  
“Oh, God, yes,” groaned John. “If she wasn’t meeting you at the door on her knees to swallow this bad boy down, it’s her loss, Greg. I would.” He wrapped a slick fist around Lestrade’s cock and began to pump.   
  
“Christ, you’ve got lube in your pockets?   
  
Thinking of the Browning, John replied, “I’ve got a lot of things in my pockets. Lifestyle hazard when you live with one Sherlock Holmes. Here.” John squeezed the rest of the packet into Lestrade’s palm and let it fall to the floor. Then he unfastened his own trousers.    
  
Lestrade’s gripped John’s shaft, stroking upwards, rubbing a thumb over the leaking head. “If I wasn’t sure that Sherlock would murder me and no one would ever find the body, I’d take you up on your offer.”    
  
“Sherlock’s not jealous.”   
  
“Of a handjob in a men’s toilet? Nah. But as good as this is, it’s a long way from me putting a ring on it.”    
  
John chuckled. “I would. Meet you at the door. Suck you dry.”   
  
“This is how I’d jerk you off,” Lestrade tugged hard, “after I fucked that sweet mouth of yours.” He cupped John’s jaw with his free hand and kissed him roughly. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”    
  
John kissed him back. “Too gentleman to fuck this arse?”    
  
“Only if you beg.”   
  
“Please, Greg, pretty please.”   
John slowed and Lestrade sped up until they were moving with one rhythm, panting in each other’s ear, bucking into each other’s hand.    
  
“Oh, God, John.”   
“Yeah, me, too. Come on, copper, make a right mess of me.”   
  
Greg did.

* * *

“Hands up where I can see them.”   
  
John had the Browning trained on him. He was in socked-feet, having left his shoes outside the front door when he’d heard them arguing. He’d crept upstairs and, to everyone’s surprise, surprised them.   
  
He raised his hands. “Oh, Johnny Boy! Foreplay! I’m so excited. If you wanted Sherlock to watch, you should’ve said something. I would’ve worn my new suit.”   
  
“You are wearing a new suit,” said Sherlock and John at the same time.   
  
“You two! I guess that’s what domestic bliss does to people!” He turned to John. “I didn’t come to start trouble.”   
  
“Try again,” said John, glancing at Sherlock.   
  
“I didn’t! I was invited. Something about flowers.” With hands still raised, he stepped to the side. “Sherlock thought I sent them.”    
John saw the roses on the table and smiled.   
  
“I’m not armed, Johnny Boy, but please check me. Thoroughly.” He smirked. “Every cavity.”    
  
John frowned, but did not lower the gun.    
  
“I’m not accompanied, either,” he said, gesturing to the curtained window. “This was not business. It was a social call, merely to put dear Sherlock’s mind at rest that I wasn’t romancing you. I assured him that ours is more of an ‘enemy with benefits’ situation.”    
  
“Sherlock, what is going on?”   
  
“Who sent them?” asked Sherlock, waving at the bouquet.   
  
John blinked. “I did.”   
  
“You?!” echoed Sherlock.   
  
“Yeah, today’s my Gran’s birthday. She would’ve been 102 years old. She loved these and always had them in her garden. I used to help her with them. She’d say, ‘Johnny, these are Rosa Mundi. They mean ‘variety’ and variety is the spice of life. Never forget that!” I was missing her and saw them in a catalogue and thought it might be nice to have some. They’re beautiful. Just like her.” He sighed. “Well, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. If you two decide to kill each other, could you do it softly?”  
  
He smiled and kissed each of them on the cheek and headed for the stairs.  
  
“Oh my shoes,” he said. He stopped and turned back.   
  
“I’ll get them,” said Sherlock. He looked at Moriarty and ushered him to the doorway.    
  
“Good night, Johnny Boy. Until next time.”   
  
John grunted and waved.

* * *

“Were you jealous?”   
  
Sherlock shook his head. “Just curious.”    
  
“Sherlock, you’re the only one I want to share a home with, the only one I want to wake up next to, and no matter what happens during the day, yours is the last face I want to see at night.”   
  
Sherlock pressed a smile into John’s hair. “Good night, John.”   
  
“Good night, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
